


Comfort in a Pathless Wood

by snarkymonkey



Series: Woodland Travels 'Verse [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, First Meetings, M/M, PWP, Rimming, Thranduil being sneaky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:04:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3267644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkymonkey/pseuds/snarkymonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While hunting, Bard crossed farther north into Mirkwood than he intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort in a Pathless Wood

Bard stared at the mark for a minute more before his shoulders sagged and he muttered a sour, “bloody hell.” He dragged his fingers along the familiar cut in the bark, sighing. He was wandering in circles. With the canopy as thick as it was, he had no bearing on the sun. Though, by his own intuition, he estimated it had been two hours at the least. His da had always warned him of straying from the main paths but with winter approaching and the stores low, the enticement of a barrel-chested stag had overtaken his rationality. And, like a fool, he now wandered in circles in the midst of Mirkwood.

“Blast,” he added, hand still splayed on the trunk of the tree. He squinted upward, wondering if it would be worth the energy to try and break beyond the boughs. If he could glean some sense of where he stood within Mirkwood, perhaps he could locate the proper path. He slung his bow around his shoulders and firming his mouth, he reached up, hand grasping one branch when he heard it.

Low and lyrical, but laughter all the same.

He withdrew his hand, careful to keep his movements slow. Fingers twitched but he managed to keep them well away from his hip quiver. The only creatures capable of merriment here would be the woodland elves; he had no need to make them think him a threat.

Across the way, an elf emerged from the thick underbrush.  Tall and slender like his kind.  Wearing the soft green and brown of what he assumed to be a scout.  Though, Bard could see no defense on hip or in hand. The lack of visible weaponry only fed his unease.  

He had met few elves in his life.  Their alien nature at times alluring and frightening.  This one no different.  His silvery blond hair fell over one shoulder in a loose braid.  Pale with haunting gray eyes.  Eyes of such sharpness, Bard’s dread tripled.

“It will not hold,” the elf remarked, his voice deeper than Bard had expected.

Bard blinked but did not relax his stance. The elf stood well out of reach but still far too near for his care. He shifted, back hitting the tree he had intended to scale. “What won’t?”

Ignoring the question, the elf moved and crossed the small glade Bard had stopped in, deft feet making no sound. Bard had a moment’s pang of irritation. To an elf, even with careful, soft strides, Bard likely sounded like a bull through the trees. He had always thought himself a competent hunter and tracker.  To this elf, however, he would appear as an untrained brute. His cheeks warmed and he frowned, watching the elf approach.

The elf’s eyes glinted though he said nothing. He folded his hands at his back and stopped, within arm’s reach to Bard. He leaned over, near enough now that Bard could smell the sharpness of the forest lingering in the elf’s hair. At the last moment, the elf shifted, leaning now to the left, his neck craned upward toward the distant canopy.

Again the shimmer of gray eyes. “To reach such heights, one would need to be …  _light._ ” He straightened, dragging his odd gaze along Bard’s form. “I would wager you are  _not._ ”

 _They can be as kind as they are deceptive. A proud people and brilliant but devious._  His father’s words from long ago rang in his head and Bard tried to take a step back, only to press harder against his tree. He shivered at the dark smirk that resulted.

“Bowman.” The elf lifted his head, that piercing gaze halting any further movements of Bard’s. “Why alone in these woods? Surely, you are aware of the caution to be taken?” He reached out, fingers brushing the fletching of his arrows. “You are quite near Mirkwood’s gates. Perhaps you are bolder than you seem.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you dare in your arrogance to hunt that which his lordship cherishes?”

Bard swallowed. “I meant no trespass,” he rasped. Blast it all. If he had brought one of Percy’s damnable hounds, he might have stayed on the proper trail. But his pride had taken him this day. And now he clearly had strayed too far into the kingdom’s boundaries.  The damnable stars had truly abandoned him if he now risked King Thranduil’s ire.

“Oh?” The elf appeared amused. “Humans rarely dare these trails. And even rarer to find one  . . . alone.” He pulled one of Bard’s arrows free, examining it. “Fine weapons, however. These would fly true.”  His eyes narrowed as he turned his attention to the bow still strung across Bard’s back.  ”And a well-used bow.  Simple but longbows were always best for power.  Excellent choice.”

Uneasy now, Bard shifted against his tree brace.  The talk of his weapon unnerved him and while a part of him stirred in curiosity at the elf’s continued conversation, he wanted now to be away and home with the children.  To forget he had even  _tried_ to come this far.  “If you would do me a kindness and show me the way back, I’ll not enter these woods again.”

As if hearing the falsehood, the elf laughed again, this time the sound lighter and more genuine. He slid Bard’s arrow back into its home. “Such a promise is not so easily kept, Bowman.” The eerie eyes followed the tiniest of Bard’s movements, as though charting and memorizing each and every minute shift of muscle and bone.

His mouth softened.  “I admit, you roused my attention, Bowman.  Visitors are rare here.  Hunting is known to be sparse.”  His brow furrowed a touch.  “You must be desperate,” he murmured.

Bard bristled. “What would an elven scout of Thranduil’s know of desperation?” he snapped.

“Careful,” the elf warned, his voice cold and deep. “Do not bite at charity lest it bite back.” He stepped up to Bard again, nearly chest to chest to point over his shoulder beyond the trees, eyes locked with Bard’s. At the last moment, Bard looked away, his pulse rapid and deafening.  In his ear the elf whispered harshly, “Two hundred paces directly behind you, will place you back on the proper trail.” A pause. “Be more mindful, Bowman.”

Bard barely heard the words, entranced by the peppery scent that filled his senses. The elf’s bared forearm, pale against his patched and dark clothing, scented of fresh leaves and turned earth. Bard’s eyes shut on their own and he breathed deep, unaware he had nudged that soft skin with his nose until he caught the sharp intake of breath.

His eyes snapped open in his sudden fear and he froze, startled to see a shade of hunger in the too-wide eyes.

The elf withdrew, taking a long step back from Bard. “You have your direction, Bowman. Take it.” He spared Bard another heated look before turning.

Without a thought, Bard reached out, snagging the elf’s wrist. “Wait,” husked, unsure of what he intended should the elf heed him.

The scout halted, peering at Bard’s dark, earth-stained hand grasping his.

Skin flaming, Bard let go. “Pardon,” he murmured. “I thought … forgive me.” With those grey eyes watching him closely, Bard became far too aware of his own appearance: travel-worn and filthy. He had been hunting for two days. The elf, by contrast, wore clean, tidy clothing. Skin unblemished. Like a curio his late wife might have coveted.

He looked away, jerking his head in an aborted bow. “I thank you, Sir Elf. I take my leave and promise never to leave the trails again.”

“You are a strange one,” the elf murmured. He turned and faced Bard completely. To his shock, the elf reached out and cupped Bard’s chin, thumb brushing at the sparse stubble. “I had witnessed your heedless tromping for the quarter of an hour before I decided to accost you.  I admit, I took some enjoyment in watching you move; humans are intriguing.  Ones such as yourself?”  His eyes darkened considerably as he dropped his gaze toward Bard’s lower half.  “Yet more so.”

Bard blinked rapidly, trying in vain to understand the elf’s meaning.  “You . . . stalked me?”

Chuckling, the elf stopped his exploration of Bard’s chin, turning his fingers now to his unkempt hair where it had begun to pull loose from its knot.  “I suppose, that is one method of description.  Observe, is more my standing.” 

There could be no denying the predatory glow to the scout’s eyes now.  The heat that echoed between Bard’s legs only worsened his situation.  Here, in these woods, Bard was more lost than when he had circled the trees.  The touches the elf graced him with were kind and warm, those a lover might leave.  But unused to such attention, and unused to its owner, Bard’s head spun in confusion.  The want, however, simmered hot in its wake; his body now well aware of where this interplay might lead and wanting it desperately.

Spirits above, if his head had been clearer, he might have been concerned.  Instead, momentarily dislodging the elf’s curious hand, he unstrung his bow, letting it fall to the glade floor.  The message clear as stone striking stone.

Gray flicked downward and then up again, a shade of triumph burning hot.  “You are alone, in Mirkwood, with an elf who has not given you a name.” He smirked, moving his hand to let it drop along Bard’s neck. “And yet you speak to me now, as one familiar and — dare I state it? — desired.  Are you so trusting, Bowman?”

Bard’s heart thundered and he licked his lips. “N-not so,” he stammered. “I’m unsure of why … I stay,” he lied. To an extent. Like much of the fair folk, the elf was beautiful. Delicate in a way that warned of danger rather than infirmity. And Bard could not deny the way his body stirred at the heat he had no doubt witnessed.

Had it been so long since he had opportunity to take another to bed? That he would crave an elf’s touch in the midst of the bloody Mirkwood? With his wife nearly two years gone, Bard could admit that he ached for those simple pleasures. Countless times he had taken himself in hand but the opportunity for another was rare. In Laketown, only doubly so.

He supposed the elf’s gender should have been enough to dissuade him but it mattered little. Bard had always been able to find beauty in his own sex. Little wonder his lust stirred and he could not shake that want.

“Unsure, are you?” the elf chided. He stepped closer to Bard, once more trapping him against the tree. So close now, the scant inches he had on Bard appeared leagues.  That scent that had caught his attention swelled and he swallowed, the ache in his groin building.

Eyes hooded, the elf tilted Bard’s head up and murmured, “You would forgive me for thinking that false,” before slanting his mouth across Bard’s.

Bard’s eyes widened at the warm press of foreign lips before his body shook and he reached with a trembling hand to grip the elf’s upper arm, his mouth opening slow and tentative against his companion’s.  Like sweetened rain water, the elf filled his mouth and Bard thought he might drown.  The barest of tastes before his tormentor pulled away.

Bumping his nose against Bard’s the elf reached with delicate fingers to stroke slack lips.  ”You do not find this distasteful?” he asked.  His slid his hand to rest the palm to Bard’s jaw.  ”I had heard that the men of Laketown do not care for those who do not keep to their own.”

Gaining some sense, Bard grunted, “The men of Laketown care little for my decisions.”

That caught the elf’s attention.  Still stroking Bard’s cheek, he quirked an eyebrow.  “And what, pray tell, did you do to earn _that_ distinction?”

“It matters little.”  Uneasy with the attention, Bard fidgeted, moving enough that the elf’s thigh slipped between his legs, pressing warm and firm.  He grunted, shutting his eyes and tossing his head back into the bark behind him.  “Blast!”  It tore from his throat like a whine but Bard gave it no more than a passing thought.

Another kiss, now to his bared throat, and the elf murmured, “Those of Laketown are rough, though not without reason.  You hold the same but there is . . . more.”  His hand moved, slipping toward Bard’s hip.  “I know the men of Laketown; you do not have their bearing.”  When Bard said nothing, he shifted again, resting his lips against Bard’s ear.  “If this unsettles you, I will cease.  I spoke truly; you are near your path.”

“No!”  Bard’s head whipped around, nearly clipping the elf as he drew away.  Face hot, he shook his head.  “It has . . . been some time,” he admitted.  Glancing once into gray eyes, he reached up with trembling fingers and tugged at the intricate leather laces at the elf’s throat, loosening them and baring more of that pale skin.  He rubbed a dirt-smudged thumb against the hollow there, aroused when earth streaked flesh like a brand.  “I do not think I could stop now.”

A noise of surprise escaped as the elf pressed forward, pinning him to the tree, his mouth hot and fierce and silencing Bard.  His fingers scraped his companion’s neck and his hips jerked, pressing hard to the thigh still trapped.  _Mercy_ but he was undone by so simple of methods.  A kiss and a touch.  So little, yet more than he had received since she had died. 

When his quiver clattered to the ground, his belt soon following, he pulled back enough to grunt, “Take care with those.”

Delicate, warm fingers tugged his trousers open, slipping past the edge of his small clothes.  That damnable smirk back in place, the elf mused, “I had mentioned they were fine weapons.  Thus, a bump on the ground will do little to them.”  He withdrew his hands and in quick movements, turned Bard and pressed him into the tree, chest first.   “They were, however,” he growled, “in my way.”

Bard frowned as he heard the elf move again, turning his head to query when the cold air of the woods curled past his buttocks, his trousers pooled at his feet.  Startled, he pushed back from the tree only to be shoved against it, gently but firmly. 

Clucking his tongue, the elf chided, “You have my oath that the discomfort you feel now will quickly be overshadowed.”  Slender hands rested on his hips, one thumb rubbing a comforting rhythm into his hip.  “I intend you no harm, Bowman,” he purred.

Bard shut his eyes tight, gritting his teeth, forehead resting against rough bark.  He swallowed and rasped, “I have . . . never,” halting before he could say the rest.

“You are untouched?” 

He shivered at the reverent awe he heard.  Shifting, his arse still bared, he craned his neck to find wide gray eyes.  “I had a wife, once,” he admitted.  “I have bedded before but . . . only women.”

To his shock, the elf rocked forward, catching Bard’s mouth with his, a growl of pleased possession rippling in his throat.  Pulling away, he said, “My good fortune to show you, then.” 

He knew enough of love-making between men to understand what would take place.  The sequence of events, however, would not yet firm themselves in his mind.  He faced the tree again, trembling as he waited.  His ardor waned as he tensed, expecting pain.  He jolted, however, when something wet and warm slipped between his arse cheeks.

Confused, he twisted his neck, finding the elf on his knees, spreading Bard’s arse and licking the bared skin.  The sight of that slick, pink muscle teasing his arsehole, fingertips white against his buttocks, left Bard groaning, his prick filling at the sight.  He leaned into the tree, arching back as the tongue slipped beyond his arsehole, teasing the tight skin.

“Oh, _blast and mercy,_ ” he spat.  He spread his legs wider, his cock heavy and swollen.  His hips rolled with each jab of that wicked tongue, the head of his prick wet now and scarlet. 

This . . . this was not what he had envisioned.  The intimacy of it thrilled and shocked him, his blood singing and burning through his skin.  Love-making had always held a perfunctory nature to it in his experience.  Pleasurable, certainly, but little else.  This, however, neared ecstasy.  The muscles of his belly tensed and loosened as his hips moved, the song in his blood building and swirling in his gut. 

The joy of completion had always been short-lived for him.  A burst of sensation that faded into relaxation.  This slow churn, however, he wanted only to latch onto.  He wanted to keep it, let it bubble and surge, nearing an edge but always short of it.  It pained him and thrilled him in equal measure.  Sweat beaded his brow and neck, his skin fever-hot.  His prick ached but he made effort not to touch it.  As though the strain of it had become a form of pleasure all its own.

Turning his head, cheek resting against rough bark, he struggled to watch the elf.  The scout had loosened his own trousers, his pale prick gleaming as Bard’s did.  Color pinked the high cheeks and the clear gray eyes had grown muddy with lust.  He met Bard’s gaze and turned his head slightly, nipping his buttock.

Dizzy as he was, the reprimand he had intended fell apart into a stammered, “Why would an elf … sully himself with a human?”

His scout stopped his delicate torture, though his hands remained warm and loose on Bard’s arse.  Unfolding easily, the elf gave him a quizzical look.  “I spoke truly before; you were worth watching.”  He smirked, eyes crinkling.  “When men appear as you, I consider it my luck to  _sully_ myself.”  He shifted, pressing his chest to Bard’s back kissing him slow and reverent, his arms looping tight around Bard’s chest.  “I have poor shields to a temptation such as you,” he purred, kissing Bard again.

The kiss ended abruptly and the elf shuddered, eyes shutting.  “Forgive me,” he rasped, “I am afraid that I . . . my desire for you is making me rash.”  A hand slipped between them and Bard tensed again when those fingertips stroked the wet skin of his arsehole.  “Let me in,” he hissed, tongue flicking Bard’s ear.

“Please!” Bard gasped, unsure of what he begged for.  He yelped at the slick of cold against his arse.  “What . . ?”

“A salve, Bowman.  I would not wish to wound you, as you recall?” 

The thick substance chilled his skin but the scent of soft flowers and clean wood settled his nerves.  He rolled his hips again when elven fingers slipped down his passage, scraping skin.  He cried out then, startled at the burst of desire that followed.  Breath shaking in his throat, forehead pressed to the tree, he stared sightless toward the forest floor.  “ _Mercy,_ ” he rasped.

Fingers slipped away and his lover rose against him, chest warm to Bard’s back.  “Mercy, you say?”  The blunt heat that pressed against Bard made him tense but the wet lips at his neck soothed his nerves.  “We shall see,” he growled, shifting forward, his prick pressing into Bard.

Voice locked in his throat, Bard could only gasp at the ache and burn.  Like muscle disused.  His arsehole protested and it took all Bard’s will not to clench against the intruder.  He bit his lip, shutting his eyes.  A sobbing moan fell when the elf’s slick fingers took hold of his flagging prick, stroking it fast and tight.  Bard’s hips jerked and he cried out again as the elf slid deeper.

Had this been what his wife felt on their marriage bed?  This intimate invasion that unraveled what little control he retained?  Spirits above, had he only known.  Having another joined with him in such a manner, filled a void he had not known he carried. 

The kisses fell light and sweet along his neck, his jaw, his ear.  Voice soft but ruined, his companion mused, “Had I the time, I would explore you fully, Bowman.”  He shifted back, drawing out, and Bard snarled in protest.  Chuckling, his lover jerked forward, rocking into Bard.  “I am, however, quite impatient.”

Panting, Bard snapped, “Then cease this endless taunt, elf!”  He hovered along that bittersweet crest.  The need to erupt nearly deafening even as he wished for it to extend into eternity.  The delicious pain left him senseless and he thrust back, earning a startled grunt.

“I see . . . I am not . . . the only one,” he husked.  His fingers dug deep into Bard’s hips.  With nary another word, the elf began to move in earnest.

Nails scraping bark, Bard rocked with each movement, his prick jerking upward and slapping his belly, beads of pearly fluid spilling fast and sure.  Torn between taking hold of himself and keeping his body upright, he opted for the latter, gritting his teeth at the need that gnawed at his gut. 

The woods around them that had been quiet for the past hour, now filled with harsh breath and the wet stroke of skin.  Bard cursed under his breath, muttering anything and everything he knew, whilst the elf whispered words of such beauty and heat he thought he might erupt without further touch.  He reached back, twining fingers in silken hair, tugging once.

A growl and his companion moved faster, his cock striking hard and fast inside Bard.  And like before, that sweet burst of ecstasy soon began.  At each fevered stab, Bard’s body jerked, his legs shaking with effort and sweat rolling from his brow.  He would not last much longer.  Even now, he could see his prick strain.  Feel the want roil and threaten. 

Shifting to lean a forearm against the tree, Bard rested his forehead against it and reached down, taking himself in hand.  He pulled hard and fast, the rough texture of his hand nearly painful, thought it still earned a sob of relief.  Bard moaned when the elf’s slender fingers wrapped around his, adding pressure that was far too much for his body to take.

Like plunging from a waterfall, Bard tumbled over his torturous precipice, crying out in wordless delight.  His ears buzzed and vision blurred, heart racing to catch up.  His lover thrust once more, groaning as though pained and Bard shivered, his prick spilling at the pleasure that surged and juddered along his nerves.  Limp against the tree, he panted, struggling to gain his breath, his body quaking at the gentle rolls of sensation along his skin.  A heartbeat later, the elf barked a sharp word in Sindarin and he emptied himself inside Bard.

It was a strange sensation but Bard found a thrill in that.  Even through his heavy coat, he could feel his lover’s heart thunder in time with his own.  As the air around them cooled, Bard shifted, his legs aching at the hunched position.  His companion licked the back of his neck and pulled free slowly, leaving Bard’s arse empty and sore.  Even so, he felt more carefree than he had in the last year.  With trembling legs, he squatted down for his trousers, fastening them before he turned to face the elf.

He could read the satisfaction in the scout’s expression as though a book.  Face flush once again, nervous like a young lad courting, Bard dropped his gaze and fixed his breeches, clearing his throat as he did.  “You still have not given me your name.”

The scout fastened the leather laces at his throat, dragging one hand down his shirt and snorted, amused.  Other than a few wayward strands of pale hair from his braid, the elf looked as he had when he had stepped into the glade.  “Neither have you.”  He turned, though, and traced a finger along Bard’s jaw before gifting him with another kiss.  Against Bard’s lips, he murmured, “Perhaps it is best that it remain as such.  Safe travels, Bowman.”  Without another word, he turned and slipped into the brush, quickly vanishing from sight.

Bard would have thought it all a dream were it not for the pleasurable throb in his arse.  Leaning against the tree that still gleamed in specks from his seed, he stared upward to the shifting canopy.  Never in all his life had he thought to bed an elf.  A _male_ elf.  An experience he would gladly repeat, if only he had known the elf’s name.  Even so, the brief pleasure they shared in that wood kindled a warmth in Bard that he would not soon forget.  Still marveling at his own temerity, he grabbed his bow and quiver and strapped them tight.  Facing the direction the elf had indicated just a short time ago, he stepped off, keeping count of his paces.

When he reached the trail, two hundred steps later, he smiled.

~~*~~

**_Two Years Later_ **

Stepping from the barge to the bare riverbank of Mirkwood proper, Bard fought the shiver of memory that erupted.  Deft fingers and sinful words.  Skin and sweat and pleasure.  The rough scrape of bark beneath his palms.  Foreign words of such heat they burned along the shell of his ears.  He stifled the disappointed sigh.  Shame that he had not been back sooner.  If he had tried, perhaps he would have found his elven lover.  Though, he doubted his scout had given him much thought beyond their tryst.  With two years gone, even less likely.

The guard at his left grunted, reminding him of his task and purpose.

Bard glanced over and stowed his memories, nodding.  He pulled the rolled parchment from an inner pocket and handed it over.  “I’ve come from Laketown.  I’m to be the bargemaster for the wine casks from this day forward.”

Taking the parchment, the guard read it quickly, rolling it neat and stowing it elsewhere.  The elf’s eyes flickered though his emotion remained unreadable.  “Yes.  His Worship wishes to speak with you, first.”

Bard frowned, but nodded.  _Blasted Alfrid,_ he thought.  The smug prick had probably _neglected_ to inform Bard of that.  He gave himself a brief look and shook his head.  At least he had bathed before his travels the night before.  Little more could be said for that.

The guard showed no interest in his internal worries and snapped a quarter turn, marching up a neat path toward the high gates of Mirkwood.  Bard followed at a slower pace, trying in vain not to cast his gaze about the hidden realm.  _Oh, Sigrid and Tilda would have enjoyed this_ , he thought.  He had a bit of coin with him and if lucky, perhaps an artisan would be willing to part with a trinket or two for the girls.

His escort stopped and performed another sharp turn, stepping out of Bard’s path and bowing.  “His Worship, King Thranduil Oropherion of Mirkwood.”

“ _Mercy,_ ” Bard breathed, forgetting all but who stood before him.  As when he stepped from his barge, Bard thought himself caught up in his memories once again.  Swimming in the heat of gray eyes and rich softness of pale hair.  Wicked lips and straining bodies.

Those eyes.  They peered at him in calculation from beneath a twining silver crown of delicate stems.  That soft, pale hair no longer bound to one shoulder, fell free and lush across both.  The finery he wore hid the broad back and firm muscle Bard had clung to.

The guard to his left grunted and narrowed his eyes at Bard.

Startled, Bard offered an awkward bow and murmured, “Your Majesty.  I am Bard of Laketown.”

Though his expression remained stern, Bard could see the grey eyes heat and simmer.  Thranduil inclined his head and murmured, “ _Dhe nathlam hi_.  Welcome.” 

With so brief a greeting, Bard’s disappointment renewed.  While the voice did bring his dalliance to mind, the formality made him question.  Perhaps he had been mistaken.  His own yearning leading him to misread the look in Thranduil’s eyes.  To think him someone else.  After all, he had met so few of the fairer folk.  That they would be difficult to tell apart would not be surprising.  Perhaps –

“We had received word that Laketown would be providing a new bargemaster and I greet you.  This,” he began, with a sweep of a hand, the shimmering gray of his robe twisting like water, “is little more than pomp.  I prefer to know with _whom_ I trade, you must understand.”  He sighed, glancing toward the forest.  “These are . . . curious times.”

Ah, there it was.  Bard had let his own lust cloud his mind for the moment.  Thranduil was _not_ his scout.  Foolish to have considered, all the same.  Shame, though.  The elven king’s appearance did well to outshine even his memories.  “Of course,” he replied.  He folded his hands before him.  “King Thranduil, anything you ask of me, I would be honored to supply.”

“Far more accommodating than most of the men of Laketown,” the king remarked.  “Be timely with collection and delivery and I will consider the agreement well in hand.”  He turned slightly, meeting the eyes of an elf behind him, one as blond as he but possibly younger.  “For now, I thank you for courtesy in this meeting.  You may return to Laketown.”  Before Bard could respond, Thranduil’s expression shifted.  Eyes sharp and hot, a smug twist of his mouth as he turned to leave, he caught Bard’s eye over his shoulder. 

“Safe travels . . . _Bowman_.”

Bard’s heart thundered violently in his chest, but as he ducked his head in parting, he could not quite fight the relieved grin that tugged at his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking liberty with Bard's age and assuming that for DoS and BotFA he's about 38 or so. This would be shortly after his wife has died (I'm assuming childbirth) so he's around 28 and whatever. So the "epilogue" technically takes place about 7-8 years before DoS.
> 
> Anyway, I've been completely eaten up by this pairing and it's my first time writing it so I probably went overboard and I apologize for that. I have at least one more idea that I'll write but we'll see. 
> 
> Anyway, I do hope you enjoy it!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://dek-says-so.tumblr.com).


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